#yet somehow without fail my mother will sniff out the deaths

[dullahandyke]

Like I cant imagine parents in other countries are like this. Came down the stairs this morning n mam said 'good morning! Four teenagers died in a car crash yesterday evening. Yeah it was terrible God bless them.' like ok thanks mom I'll go make my toast now

[strigital]

Do tell about Nim, I couldn’t find much info about her through your blog and I am dying to know more about this werewolf lady

well grab a pint and sit yo booty down, cause our bard of the evening tonight is Nim and she's drunk as all hell and ready to weave some outrageous stories!! 🍻

in all seriousness, thank you for asking! 😭💗 she came about back in ye oldie days of hype over the 11th of november 2011, and since then refuses to give up the title of my fav oc!!

now, a Paarthurnax would say: lets-a go!

a quick recap of the events in Skyrim:

Naali Saryn was born sometime in 4E 130 on mainland Morrowind as a result of a quick fling between an unknown Dunmer girl and Lucien Lachance and Kassandra Saryn's (The Hero of Kvatch's) son.

Sometime in that year, the baby was found aboard a ship bound for Raven Rock and when no one came forth to claim her a couple of elderly and childless ash yam farmers decided to take her in until her family was found.

The family, of course, was never found, and so they raised her as their own for the next sixteen years. They called the girl Nim - short, sweet, meaningless, and easy to shout out into the fields where the little brat is out adventuring when the house chores are yet to be done.

Nim grew up alongside her best friend Teldryn (don't believe his tales about his past, there's a reason why he wears a helmet in his hometown). For years the kids dreamt of leaving Raven Rock behind and making it big in the big city. And idea which really annoyed Nim's ol' Nana, who believed that everything needed for a simple happy life was right here on Solstheim.

After one particularly nasty fight with Nana about the ordeal, Nim gathered a bag of things and slipped out in the dead of night to catch an early morning ship with Teldryn.

They stuck together for a while then went on their separate merry ways. He - to Blacklight, she - to Leyawiin. Once in the wild, Nim had to quickly figure out her place in the pecking order. The romantic life of crime seemed to be the most attractive for her, but getting on top could never be easy. Especially for a young, inexperienced, and naive girlie. So she ended up running with the wrong kind of crew. Ended up in some truly dark places. Barely got out alive. Learned from her mistakes. Wore the scars of abuse like armor and made sure that since that day no one in this world or any other would play her for a fool, use her or put a finger on her without her permission.

By the time she turned fifty, Nim was well known amongst certain circles as the kind of scoundrel, thief, bard, and wench one should not trifle with. But her luck had to eventually run out, and so it did on the night of the fabled Umbacano Mansion heist, which failed so badly Nim had to either leave Cyrodiil or end up in a Thalmor owned torture chamber.

Skyrim seemed like a perfect place. After all, in a kingdom torn apart by the civil war, no one would even notice yet another greyskin refugee, right? Well, the Thalmor did. And so she ended up on a cart bound for Helgen to have a date with an executioner. But then Alduin showed up to crash the party before he himself got rudely interrupted by another dragon, who swooped in to save the Last Dragonborn.

After the narrow escape, Nim concluded her duty to warn Balgruuf of the dragon threat and went on to start a new career as a merc with the Companions. She and Aela became fast friends and when the prospect of joining the Circle came up she gladly accepted a sip of her new sister's blood. To never again be helpless and weak? To rip apart any fool who'd take her for just another elf wench who can't put up a fight? Well of course it was worth giving up the ability to sleep and having to get used to all smells suddenly becoming ten times worse!

After that Mirmulnir showed up and ended up as another ornament above the throne in the Dragonsreach. And Nim got stuck with a title which she would wear with great discontent for years to come.

Eventually, she ceased trying to run away and hide from her destiny, accepted her role as the Last Dragonborn, and begrudgingly began her quest to save the world. On her journey, she met and became tight friends with Yollokmir and Alasil who taught her how to speak, fight and fly like a dragon. With their help she inherited Konahrik's legacy: his mask embued with his soul, his citadel far up in the mountains - the NebenLok Zeikangaar - and the right to revive and lead the order of dragon riders sworn to defeat Alduin - DovahDein.

As she gained power and the word of her great many deeds spread across Skyrim, she managed to get quite the following of fellow men, mer, and Dov, willing to follow her into Sovngarde and beat the hell out of Alduin. Alas, she failed. Twice.

At that point, Alasil informed her of a special someone who might be of help in their quest against Alduin and who might prove difficult to convince to join her cause. That was the first time in fifty years that Nim got to visit her home. Unfortunately, Solstheim had changed. And upon arrival, she learned that her Pa passed onto the realm of Azura soon after her departure, and her Nana... well, she wasn't young anymore and suffered greatly due to all the ash ruining her lungs... and when the islanders got called to the All-Maker stones night after night by a mysterious spell, she just worked herself to death. That was the only thing Nim wouldn't forgive Miraak for, not until he swallowed his pride and sincerely apologized for being responsible for his potential mother-in-law's death.

And with Miraak's help, they finally sent Alduin back to his Maker, enjoyed a few peaceful years until High King Ulfric became a bit drunk on his power and needed a good ass whooping as well. Then Miraak suddenly found himself as the new king and Nim... she just did her own thing. As always. The end?

Oh and all the while running about, gathering forces, growing her Dragonborn powers, hunting Dragon Priests and Alduin's henchmen, she also meddled with the Thieves Guild, put Karliah in charge and became her right hand, managed to become an advisor on all things dragon at the Mage's College, ended up teaching lute and songwriting at the Bard's College (she's taking a break since Viarmo can't seem to handle her teaching tactics), earned the title of Thane in every hold and became a good friend to the Dawnguard fellas (Isran is more than happy to teach her kids the ropes of monster hunting) after kicking Harkon's ass into Oblivion. In what little free time she has Nim also manages the Lakeview Manor and leases the ash yam farm back in Raven Rock for some extra cash. All in all, a busy woman!

and some tidbits about the dovahmom:

Although Nim is perfectly aware of her real name, she chooses to use the one given to her by Nana. Both as a sign of respect and because, frankly, she dislikes both the Sarynes and the Lachances, who are, in her humble opinion, just a bunch of pricks. Somehow, the ghost of her murdered grandad finds this opinion of hers kinda funny.

Her friends sometimes describe her as "cyrodiilic brandy in a cup of tea": she's this small elf girl with pretty blue eyes and a smile on her face and you think that she'll be very pleasant and cute and shy and then... then you realize she drinks like a sailor, swears like one too, can beat anyone into the dirt (thanks, Hircine) and doesn't take shit from nobody. She openly speaks her mind and doesn't give a shit about what someone might think of her. She does what she considers the right thing to do, never plays nice with those she dislikes, never pretends to be someone she isn't. She's feisty, sassy, brassy, and, quite honestly, just doesn't give a fuck.

Nim is in almost complete control over her inner beast, partly thanks to her draconic blood, partly - to the ring she got when she and Sinding had that little party on a moonlit night in that grotto. She only loses control over herself when both moons are full and thusly will travel deep into the wilds a few days before the magical night. This way the only people that might get hurt are bandits, necromancers, hags, and the like. She and Aela also managed to get a small werewolf pack going, named the Whitemane Pack after the old man himself and dedicated to those who wish to take control over their inner beast, hunt with honor, and cause the Silver Hand as much grief as possible.

Nim is raising Blaise and Sofie as her own since they both were just wee lil' war orphans (the babes are in their teens now). She never quite really knew why... Nim was never a wifey nor a baby momma kind of woman. In fact, she can't even have children in the first place and, honestly, always thought of this as a blessing - never having to worry about contraception like all those other girls and just having fun without a care in the world! Her friends sometimes joke around, saying that she might've finally "ripened" for the motherhood, but she doesn't care. She loves Blaise, Sofie, and Sissel (thanks, Miraak, you're so good at kidnapping children!) and is content with being their famous Dragonborn mom. Post-Alduin Miraak, however, is secretly annoyed for not being able to get her pregnant. Oh well, the man can dream...

Oh yeah! Nim plays the lute and sings too! It's a skill she picked up across taverns all over the continent when she realized that bards get free drinks and a bed, as well as ample opportunity to sniff out and seduce prey. And even though her days of hunting for good-looking rich fools are long behind her, she still performs in inns and taverns across Skyrim. Firstly, it brings in a fair amount of money, and secondly, it's good for her Voice! And also just plain and simple fun.

Also, people get terribly surprised when she, a Dunmer, doesn't act like one at all! Nim might've grown up in Raven Rock, a Dunmer settlement, but she spent the rest of her life traveling the continent and then living in Skyrim. She's more Nord-ish than some Nords! And the Nords actually really love it! It's so so easy to just get plastered with the homegirl, punch some faces and pass out on a heap of hay behind the inn, just happy to be alive on this fine snowy day. The only truly Dunmer thing about her is the occasional "n'wah!" which escapes her potty mouth. I mean, she doesn't even like sujamma all that much and would rather have a pint of mead! Whatever Ancestors she has must be spinning in their graves fast enough to generate electricity.

uuuhhh I think that's all the important stuff? i might've forgotten, in which case, I'll add it later... meanwhile, have some more Nim content:

^^^ the fanfic is slow, but it's moving... at a snail's pace. my advice: don't expect updates, so that when they do come, you'll be pleasantly surprised!

[lothiriel84]

Fake It

Show me joy, flower through disarray Let's destroy, each mistake that we made

A Cabin Pressure ficlet. Set in the same universe as Overjoyed, Joy, Million Pieces, and An Act Of Kindness. Aromantic!Carolyn, with background aromantic!Tiffy. (With thanks to @sircarolyn​ and @fractionallyfoxtrot​ for their prompts.)

“Far be it from me to question your motivations, Carolyn, but I fear the waiters are starting to suspect the menu has somehow managed to personally offend you.”

She turns her patented death glare on him, but it’s more out of habit than anything else. “Whoever translated the ice cream list into this weird approximation of the English language, frankly deserves a taste of Arthur’s cuisine.”

“Shall I order for you? You won’t regret it, I promise,” Douglas offers, without any apparent second motive. He’s in a good mood today – she suspects it’s got something to do with how he got to show off with a perfectly executed landing in Pisa, and in front of Arthur’s live-in partner on top of that. (Arthur explained to her that Tiffy isn’t quite comfortable with being referred to as his ‘girlfriend’, and she’s been trying to avoid using the term since, even in the privacy of her own mind.)

“Fine,” she shrugs, irritably, and shuts the menu. She barely pays any heed to Douglas rattling off the order in what sounds like fairly good Italian – at least to her own, unmistakably British, ear – starts fiddling with her phone instead.

“I’m sure even Arthur can’t manage the feat of accidentally tipping the Leaning Tower over, if that’s what’s troubling you.”

“Douglas,” she starts, pinching the bridge of her nose for good measure. “If I wanted to put up with a man’s idea of a witty conversation, I’d be out there sightseeing with Herc.”

“Trouble in paradise, I surmise?” Douglas ventures to enquire, almost genuinely sympathetic for a change.

“It’s none of your business,” she retorts, quickly. Douglas doesn’t seem to mind her abruptness, though – just flashes a charming smile at the young waitress bringing their ice cream sundaes, and signals for the taller one to be placed in front of Carolyn.

“Almond and pistachio gelato,” Douglas gestures with his spoon. “My favourite.”

Carolyn takes a cautious sniff, stares suspiciously at her glass cup. “Douglas, if you ordered some god-awful flavour on purpose, I swear,” she starts, only to trail off as she tastes the first spoonful. “What on earth is this?”

“Limoncello gelato. I’m told it tastes amazing.”

She takes another spoonful, and while her first instinct is to be contrary just for the sake of it, in the end she simply can’t summon the energy for it. “It does, rather, actually.”

“You’re welcome,” Douglas smirks, tucking into his gelato with gusto.

They finish their ice cream in silence, and in an uncharacteristic bout of generosity, Douglas even offers to pay. She lets him, if only to be afforded the satisfaction of bringing it up later, and they find their way towards a bench sitting in the shade of yet another of those sickly smelling linden trees.

“I don’t need a man’s pity,” she declares at length, against her better judgement, somehow tricked into it by Douglas's continued – and frankly unnerving – silence. “Especially not Herc’s.”

“Again, far be it from me to offer matrimonial advice,” he sighs. “But if that’s of any consolation, I don’t believe you have it.”

“How would you know,” she bites back, somewhat bitterly, only to feel vaguely guilty about it immediately after. None of this is Douglas’s fault – nor Herc’s, for that matter, if she has to be completely honest with herself. Herc’s been nothing but utterly supporting of her, which is what unnerves her the most, no matter how irrational that sounds.

“I hate to be the one to break this to you, Carolyn, but the walls of the Portakabin are hardly soundproof.”

Of course. She’d been too bloody furious to care, and the worst part was that deep down, she knew Herc was right – it was just a lot to wrap her head around, even more so after spending sixty-three odd years wondering whether there was something fundamentally wrong with the way she was.

“I’m not an idiot, Douglas,” she points out, matter-of-factly. “I am well aware of the many, varied romantic and sexual orientations available to humankind, as Arthur was so kind as to teach me at some length after that blasted course in Ipswich. And while I do appreciate that Arthur, in his infinite optimism, must have meant that ridiculous pin badge as a well-intended gift, I can’t see why I should publicly advertise such a private matter, let alone be – proud – of it.”

She almost spits out the word, as if physically lodged somewhere in her throat. For all that she values Herc’s intelligence enough to trust he’s not somehow deluding himself about the true nature of their relationship and the foundations of their marriage, she can still feel the doubt raising its ugly head way more often than she should like.

“I never thought I would have to come out and say this, and I would appreciate if you kindly refrained from mentioning it in front of the man himself, but – well, Herc is no idiot, either. He knew precisely what he was signing up for when he proposed to you, and yet he did it all the same.”

“Good Lord,” she blinks, though it’s mostly for show. She simply can’t afford to pass an opportunity to redress the balance in their – friendship, she supposes, even though she would never call it that to Douglas’s face. “Are you actually agreeing with Herc?”

“I know, I know. The world must be about to end, and all that,” he shrugs, flicking a stray leaf from the sleeve of his uniform. “What I fear our brave First Officer failed to convey is the fact that, while you’re in no way required to wear your son’s gift, it would make a world of a difference not just to him, but to young Tiffany as well.”

Carolyn stares in the distance, considering the truth to Douglas’s words. She has spent virtually all her life completely unaware there was even a word to describe her own experience, and she might have never heard of it, had it not been for Arthur and his partner. Having recently had the displeasure of meeting Tiffy’s mother, she daren’t imagine how hard the girl had to fight to have her own identity acknowledged, never mind accepted; she thinks of her sister Ruth and her scathing comments about Carolyn’s perceived failings, and suddenly decides that, forget pride – spite is a powerful enough motivator, at least as far as she is concerned.

“Right,” she clears her throat. “Aromantic pride flag it is, then. At least I brought my green scarf with me this morning.”

“That’s the spirit,” Douglas grins, and makes to get up. “Shall we reconvene with the rest of the crew?”

She rummages into her bag, takes a deep breath, and pins the badge to the front of her shirt. “If any of the passengers dare to comment on this,” she starts, her chin raised in defiance.

“Should you need any help with disposing the bodies,” he throws at her over his shoulder. “You know where to find me.”

With that, they fall into step with one another, heading back towards where the main tourist attractions are. It’s not their first time in Pisa, not by any stretch of imagination, yet she can easily picture Arthur having the time of his life while some befuddled stranger takes that same old photograph of him ‘holding up’ the Leaning Tower with his hands. Or perhaps Tiffy managed to talk some sense into him, where everyone else has failed this far.

“Oh, and Douglas?” she breaks the silence, eventually, even as they spot Herc’s distinctive figure flitting in and out of the crowd a mere couple of yards ahead of them. “Thank you for the ice cream.”

They both know that’s not all she means, and she’s secretly relieved when Douglas has the decency not to directly address it. “Any time,” he nods, and waves to get Herc’s attention.

[latviaaaaaa]

The Guard Cat

She’s staring out the window again. She’s had this habit since she was a kitten; cats like to stare out windows, sure, but she makes a point of doing it for hours at a time. I used to think she was watching birds, or maybe on the lookout for foxes. And maybe that was part of it, but I think we’ve both learned since then that there are scarier things to look out for. And more interesting things to think about.

Her whiskers twitch at a slight movement in some bushes by the side of the road, where we’ve stopped to rest for the afternoon. Some kind of small animal; anything more than that and she would go off like a burglar alarm. I’ve never heard what a burglar alarm sounds like, but I know they used to keep them in public places - banks and museums and malls and such, when burglary was still unusual and considered a threat to public safety. Alarm systems in such places have been deactivated since then, or have fallen into disrepair, which is good for us because it means we can find food and other necessities undisturbed.

Unless, of course, we make a wrong turn and head unwittingly into a trap. That’s when Judy takes over.

Her job is, in theory, an easy one: sniff out trouble, alert the humans, and we’ll all leave. She’s good at it, and she needs to be. We’re really into not waiting out the danger around here, since that usually ends up being worse than just moving on and spending the occasional night hungry. Even a cat would agree, but at least Judy can hunt in the bushes by the road, where the few critters left after the invasion still burrow and nest, shrinking back into the earth like a frightened child into their mother’s arms.

The cat glances away from the window at last, apparently satisfied with her scouting, and finally notices me lying down next to her. We’re on the top bunk in the back, where I get to sleep because I’m the youngest and therefore weakest - that’s basically what Sune said when I asked where we’d be sleeping. “You get to go up there, where Judy’s sitting,” she told me, pointing out the pale silhouette of the cat in the moonlight, the night we packed up our trailer and left town for good, “since you’re so little. She’ll protect you. Plus I get motion sickness, so I want to be close to the ground in case I have to throw up in the middle of the night.”

This was a wise negotiation tactic of hers: give an order, add a minor insult, and then before they can fight back, come up with a maddeningly good reason to support your argument. I knew I wasn’t little anymore (I’m twelve already, for God’s sake!), and even though I wouldn’t have minded sleeping up there, I at least wanted a better reason than, “you’re small and inferior in terms of self-defense, so we’re giving you this housecat for protection. Like that’ll do anything for you.”

But I also knew I really didn’t want to wake up suddenly in the night, covered in my sister’s vomit, so I obeyed with a grumble and snuggled up under my blanket, my face roughly a foot away from the ceiling. Judy made room for me and my blanket cocoon, shuffling herself to the side as I climbed in; then, after I resettled, she padded over to me and licked my face until I opened the blankets for her. It’s become our little routine, every bedtime: she lets me climb in with her, nuzzles my cheek like she’s ringing a doorbell, and snuggles up with me in our warm little blanket burrito. Sometimes I curl my arm around her, scratch her head, listen to the sound of her purr as we both drift off to sleep. It’s like when I used to hug a pillow in my sleep, but fluffier and cuddlier. As solitary as cats are known to be, I always thought it was curious how sweet and affectionate Judy can be sometimes.

Right now, as soon as she notices me, she walks over and settles down next to my head, keeping her warm green eyes trained fully on mine. Her little paws are curled in beneath her weight, her fur keeping them hidden from view, but I know that the front two have a pair of little white fur-socks, and the back two are a dusty, russet color. That’s why we named her Judy, after Judy Garland, because it looked like she was wearing red shoes; on her, they’re a little more reminiscent of cowgirl boots than the sparkly ruby slippers Dorothy owned, but for what she lacks in costume accuracy she makes up for in personality. Judy’s a young tabby, no more than three years old, and she’s been fixed; yet you could swear she thinks of all of us as her kittens.

As if agreeing with me, she leans her head forward and sniffs a lock of my hair that dangles between us, before tilting her head and chewing on it. Human hair is nowhere the same texture as her fur, a fact of which she is well aware, but she tries grooming us nonetheless. Every time I see her curled up on Sune, she’s got either part of her shirt or part of her hair in her mouth. And she takes this business of hers seriously, leaving little puddles of cat drool on Sune’s shoulders as she lies there, unassuming and in blissful peace. Once I tried to wake her, to point out the saliva slowly accumulating on her favorite shirt, but she merely waved me aside with her hand.

“If the cat’s happy, I’m happy,” she murmured through a thick veil of sleep, turning onto her side and letting Judy tumble onto her back, the collar of my sister’s shirt still caught in her teeth.

Weirdos. Then again, I was the one who once tried to return the favor for Judy and ended up with an extensive personal knowledge of what hairballs feel like when they form in your throat, so I guess I’m not really one to talk.

But the cat tries her best, either way you look at it, and I’m grateful for it because sometimes it feels like she’s the only one who is. Ever since we hit the road, Mom and Mama have been… Different. It’s not that they love us less - if anything, I think they maybe even love us more than before - they just have a lot of things on their mind. Like keeping us all safe.

A few days ago, we were completing a raid on an old supermarket. It was a good spot, surprisingly fresh - the fridges were even still cold, which I thought was kind of amazing, and the cash box still had money in it, some of which we took in case we needed kindling for later. Our packs were almost full by the time Mama turned to us and said she thought we should get going soon; the sun would be setting within the hour, and we needed to get back on the road before then. Sune agreed, and went to pick up Judy when Mom pointed out that she hadn’t shown even the slightest sign of panic or fear towards this place since we got there, and that if the cat wasn’t scared, there was no reason for us to be, either.

I saw the reason behind Mom’s logic. Judy had never before missed an evil presence, nor failed to inform us. And the old supermarket was pretty cool. But I’d seen my fair share of what can happen when you overestimate how safe you are indoors, and I didn’t want to stay here any longer than I needed to.

Neither did Mama. And so an argument ensued, and when they started to face each other in a way that resembled lions in a cage, Sune took me by the shoulder and led me away into what had once been the produce section. “Crazy, aren’t they?” She tried to sound upbeat and confident. It fell flat, but I didn’t mind so much; we both hated the sound of our mothers arguing. The quiet of the opposite end of the store, or the sound of her voice dying a shameful, albeit relieving death in her throat, was better.

Until she froze, without warning, nails suddenly claws digging into my shoulder. We had both heard it: the low, guttural sound coming from beyond two swinging doors, where employees used to walk through, back when they still worked here. I barely had time to think that we should’ve brought Judy with us before Sune full-on lifted me up and ran, and I heard the doors burst open with earth-shaking violence behind us and a roar swept old boxes off their shelves next to us, and I clung to her and screamed, screamed, was that me or was that Mama, or Mom, or Sune, or was it Judy, screeching and bolting across the aisles, leading the way to the exit.

We ran and didn’t stop until we reached the van again. It took us all of ten seconds to climb inside, start the engine, and take off down the road, faster than we’d ever driven before. Mama’s knuckles were turning white on the steering wheel when I finally convinced her to slow down, Sune couldn’t take much more until she threw up. When the grey and brown flashes outside the window were finally discernible as nature again, and her stomach had stopped lolling around inside her like a dying fish, my sister fell asleep with her muddy boots on and Judy curled up beside her, nose hidden in her tail, still trembling. I got the strangest feeling, looking at her, that she felt guilty somehow.

That night I lay awake, unable to sleep. It wasn’t so much the memory of the beast in the supermarket, the doors clanging open, the shelves collapsing in our wake that kept me up - although that was certainly part of it - but rather the sound of my mothers’ voices. They were quieter, now, in the driver’s section of the trailer, and more emotional. It had been a rough day.

I could see, in the faint light coming from the open window, Mom holding Mama’s hands as she spoke to her, trying and failing to stay calm enough for them both. “I’m sorry.” I could see her lips forming the basic words. “Agnes, I’m sorry. I thought we were safe.”

Aside from one thing - “Our babies, our babies” - I couldn’t make out what Mama was saying back.

They lay down on the mattress they shared a few minutes later, next to Sune, who was still asleep and who would continue to sleep well into the next day. I continued to lie there, still, frozen in the dark. Mama wouldn’t look at Mom.

Then, as I listened, watched with my closed eyes, something strange happened. I heard Judy’s tired little “mrr” from the bunk below, felt the bed frame quake as she stretched, then leapt over my sister and made her way over to the mattress where my parents were supposed to be sleeping. I listened to her climb over them and settle down in between, purring softly, pinning the blanket down to the bed. Grounding them. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before I heard the nightly exchange I didn’t realize I had been waiting for:

“Goodnight, Agnes.”

“Goodnight, Stefanie.”

Judy stops chewing on my hair for a moment and tilts her head at me. I tilt mine back. Her little pink tongue darts out, and I can’t help but laugh as I reach out to scratch her belly. That’s another weird thing about this cat: she has no reservations when it comes to having her belly scratched. She loves belly scratches, even though she’s a cat, she knows what we feel, she can sense evil…

“Hey, Judy?”

I’ve got to be imagining to way she flicks her head at me, eyes happily closed but ears standing straight up. It can’t be that she really hears me. And yet, some part of me knows, intrinsically, that she does.

“Are you our guardian angel or something?”

Her eyes open suddenly, and wide. They lock on mine, as though to ask, how did you know?

Her whiskers tremble a little, so I play with them until they calm down. I shrug at her. “Dunno. I don’t think I did know, really. I just wanted to ask.”

If I can judge by the way she watches me a second longer, looking almost amused, before rolling onto her back and stretching her paws over my face, the answer satisfies. Alright. I can live with that.

“As long as you’re keeping us alive.” I smile when I hear her start to purr in response. I imagine she’s laughing in her sleep.

- March 11th, 2019. Also shortly before midnight.

Hey! So, yeah, I need to figure a way to write decent one-shots without having them turn into full-on existential nightmares, and also within a reasonable time frame so I can like. Sleep. You know?

Aside from this, and the rest of school, life is okay. I saw an old friend of mine today, which should’ve been nice, but I noticed that she’s changed a lot since I last saw her... Like, a lot... So now I just feel kinda bleh. It’s one of those days, it’s a “bleh” day.

So, obviously, the whole “multiple posts a day so I can catch up” thing isn’t working out so well, so I may just have to continue doing them like every 4-5 days or something. That or I’ll actually stretch out my comfort zone and get better at writing short things XD

I would like to know what y’all think of these, so far! If there’s anything in particular anyone wants me to write about, I am very open to suggestions (although seeing as this is a school assignment, even though I would love to write openly about SSSS, I don’t think I can really do more than include subtle allusions to it for now).

[schrijfpen-blog]

Not Just Cinderella Ch. 2

Story Navigation

              “So, is anyone going to tell me what happened in class?”

    Logan’s words have me shrugging my shoulders, “I have no idea,”

    “I can’t believe it, I just can’t believe it,” Elena waves her hands busily, the neon bracelets clanking together noisily. “Prince Charming actually sat with us, us!”

    “Yeah, that,” Logan glances over at the excited girl. “And you don’t think that’s a little strange?”

    “Oh yes, definitely,” she nods gravely, bobbing her head. “But still, he sat with us!”

    Logan shakes his head at her excitement before he looks over at me. “Did he do anything weird to you?”

    “No, uh... He lent me his pen but that’s all. He didn’t really say much either,”

    “Hm...” 

    “Why? What’s wrong?” He looks oddly suspicious.

    “It’s nothing,” Logan waves me off. 

    “Oh! How’d it go with the thing-a-majing you were called for?” Elena asks, finally snapping out of her Prince-Charming-induced-daze. “Are you in trouble?”

    Logan rolls his eyes. “Oh, it turned out to be nothing. She thought I did something, I didn’t do it, she didn’t believe me so I’m getting detention anyway,”

    “What?” I gape at him “That’s so unfair!”

    “Well, whatever,” he shrugs, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie “Not like I care, it’s just detention,”

    Logan you should definitely start caring a bit more about this injustice. 

    “It’d be nice if detention were a subject. I’d pass it with flying colours,”

    His relaxed attitude makes me sigh. “Please don’t be so proud of that. Your track record is really horrible this year,”

    “Sorry,” he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “I’ll be more careful. Cross my heart and stuff,”

    I click my tongue at his reply, but he simply gives me a laid back smile. Adorable idiot. Someone definitely dropped him on the head when he was a baby.

              The next two classes are pretty uneventful, and when it’s time for break we reach the cafeteria in no time at all. Separating from Logan and Elena, I walk over to our usual table while they disappear into the crowd to buy their lunches. I sit myself down at my seat and take out the sandwich I prepared this morning.

    I still can’t wrap my head around what happened this morning. The school’s very own Prince Charming had somehow deemed me worthy of his company. Since when do things like that even happen?

    A loud, painfully familiar laugh drags my attention over to the table in the centre of the cafeteria. It’s the unspoken ‘popular table’, but we of Loserville like to call it the ‘Fairy Tale Table’, or FTT for short. Especially since it has Prince Charming, but we quietly gave some of the other table sitters roles as well. Of course none of us plans to tell Dakota that we dubbed her the Wicked Witch.

    Only the rich and beautiful are allowed to sit at that table anyway, even if you can remove 90% of that beauty with a wet wipe.

    The one laughing is Cecilia, the twin sister of Drew who is seated next to her. They both have wavy long, black hair and gray eyes which would honestly look about half their current size without the fake lashes and flattering make-up they always busy themselves with. Stylish and poised, it’s no surprise that they hang out with Dakota; little bees under the reign of their queen.

    Personally I’m all too familiar with how rich Cecilia and Drew are; though no one has really realised yet, they’re my stepsisters. Gotta be grateful for the world’s small favours though: despite being in the same grade, we’re not in the same class. That’d be enough to make anyone wonder if God is real and looking out for me a little, right?

    I peek a glance over at the other side of the table where most of the guys are at. When my gaze meets a familiar baby blue, my body does an odd little twitch and I swear I can see a small smile before I turn my head away.

    No way.

    Since when is direct eye contact even a part of ogling Prince Charming?

    Wait, why was he even looking my way at all?

    “You look like you’re ready to throw yourself into a dingy little hole to wait for death,”

    Wow Logan, thank you.

    He sits down opposite me while Elena sits next to me, and I try to ignore the delicious scents of their food and to focus on my slightly dried out sandwich instead.

    “Did anything happen?” Logan asks, raising a fry to his lips.

    Mm... Fries... I must be staring at his food more than I thought because he suddenly dangles a fry in front of my face, a grin on his lips. “Here girl, come here,” he teases “Come and get it,”

    With a playful growl I rise up in my seat a bit, capturing the fry with my mouth. Elena bursts out into a fit of giggles at my side and I sit myself back down, suppressing a wide grin and turning my attention back to my own food.

    Most of the break is spent eating our lunches and random things we plan to do. Though, for me, there’s not much to say where that’s concerned.

              Seven times. Throughout the school day I made eye contact with Prince Charming seven. Freaking. Times. And let’s not linger on how often exactly I glance his way, but instead let’s give it some thought that, before today, I don’t think he ever glanced my way even once.

    Is today even a real day? Am I dreaming?

    The air is still as cold as it was this morning, and the walk home is uncomfortably long without Logan around to amuse me. It’d be nice to ride back with Drew and Cecilia when the weather is like this, especially considering how Cecilia has a car, but I think they’d rather strangle themselves with their own insides than have anyone associate the three of us with each other.

    To be honest, that thought is a little comforting.

    Fortunately I make it back home before my limbs are completely numb, so I’m willing to count that as a point in my favour.

    I don’t know what other people do when they get home, but for me it’s typically the same; I put my bag in my room in the attic, grab my apron and gloves, then I get to cleaning. By the time I finish the first round of cleaning it’s often time to work on dinner so I work on that next.

    Moving around the kitchen, the sound of the door opening and closing reaches my ears, followed by laughter. Drew and Cecilia are back from wherever they went. Judging by the sound of various bags being dumped unceremoniously on the floor, I’m willing to bet they went shopping with Dakota again.

    “Alexis I’m hungry! Hurry up!” Drew calls.

    Then make your own food, please. 

    “Food is almost done,” I carry the tableware out of the kitchen to the dining table, yelping when I nearly stumble over a shopping bag, fumbling to stay standing without dropping anything.

    “Watch out, you klutz,” Cecilia scoffs at me, waving a hand like she’s royalty or something. “Those are new, you know?”

    You damned slob. You know your mother would kill me and mutilate my corpse if I’d drop these plates!?

    “Sorry, I’ll be more careful,”

    “See to it,” She sniffs haughtily before turning her attention back to the TV.

    Snob.

    “You’ll unpack them for us, won’t you?” Drew asks airily, knowing full well that I’m not in a position where I can’t say no.

    “Of course,” Minding the bags, I take out the rest of the tableware, setting the table for three before returning to the kitchen to grab the food.

    The front door opens again, only this time it comes accompanied with a stern, “Goodness gracious. Why are all these bags here? Am I to break my neck?”

    “Welcome back, mother!”

    “I already told Alexis to take them away but she hasn’t yet,”

    Of course I wasn’t! I was making your food!

    “Alexis!”

    Breathe in through the nose, and out through the mouth. Okay, let’s go. Carrying out the steaming plate of lasagne, I plaster a smile on my lips. “Welcome back, ma’am. Did work go well?”

    “Why didn’t you clean up the bags yet, Alexis?”

    Cold and unforgiving, her gray eyes stare at me as if I’m no more than a speck of dirt at the bottom of her shoe. Actually, she’d probably prefer the dirt. As usual her ash blonde hair is pinned back into a neat bun, the tailored navy skirt-suit fitting her form perfectly.

    “I was going to move them aside after I finished setting the table, ma’am,”

    “You’d have me break my neck, Alexis?”

    Shouldn’t you be asking your bratty kids that question?

    “Of course not, ma’am. I’m sorry,”

    “Put everything away, now,” she turns her head away, as if the conversation is over.

    “I was planning to put everything away after dinner-“

    “Did I stutter, Alexis?”

    I press my lips together for a moment before forcing out a, “... No, ma’am,”

    I ignore the giggles from the couch and place the last of the food down on the table before gathering all the bags strewn throughout the living room, barely able to carry them all. My stomach clenches when they start to eat, and I allow a longing thought to my own plate of food in the kitchen, before starting the struggle in carrying the bags up.

    I can hardly remember what my life was like before Vivaldi and her daughters moved in. I vaguely remember spending some wonderful times with my mother and my father, but the memories aren’t as prominent as the memories of mother’s failed battle against cancer.

    Father had grown sullen, and the air would often be heavy. I’d tried my best to cheer him up and he’d try his best to cheer me up. Despite our best efforts, it was hard to keep the good cheer.

    One day he’d come to me, struggling to broach the subject of remarrying. He said he’d fallen for a lovely widow, and that it might be good to fill up the house with laughter once again. I hadn’t looked forwards to a new mother, but I wanted father to be happy. And so, with a smile, I’d given him my blessing.

    Too bad the promised kind new mother and fun sisters turned out to be from Witchville.

    They’d play nice enough when father was around, but whenever he’d leave on a business trip, I’d often go ignored. It was lonely, but it was doable. I had my friends, my hobbies: I had anything I needed to keep myself amused, knowing that when father would come back from his trip things would get better.

    When news came that father would not return from a business trip, things only got worse. His body was never found, devoured by the sea. Where there is no body, there is hope, right...? Even though survival is, by all means, impossible, the lack of closure had me hoping, even after he’d officially been declared dead.

    Though, it seemed I was the only one who was hoping and grieving...

    My room somehow ended up becoming Drew and Cecilia’s, and I shudder every time I see what they did to it. The old and rickety attic became my new room; a cold place where the heater never wants to work properly. 

    At first I got ignored, but then, bit by bit, they started demanding things from me. 

    “Try cleaning,” they’d said while laughing. “It’ll help take your mind off of things,”

    Well the joke’s on them, because I just happen to like cleaning just fine. It’s relaxing, and it’s nice to see everything become clean after my efforts. But it would be nicer if those brat sisters wouldn’t mess up my efforts on purpose.

    However... I’m sure that once I’m eighteen Vivaldi will expect me to leave the house. Lord knows she’s hinted many a times that, with the small inheritance left to my name, I’ll surely find myself a different place to live, right? Though she can’t kick me out due to fear of how it’d be perceived by society, there will be no trouble for her if I decide to move out on my own.

    This house filled with memories... It pains me to think that one day I won’t be living in it anymore, but it pains me even more to think that the rest of my life will look like this.

    The clothes are finally put away, and I make my way back down. I let my food heat up in the microwave while I clear up the dirty dining table, taking my plate up to my room once I’m done.

    I sit myself at the uneven desk and start up the old laptop that once belonged to Drew. It’s slow, noisy, quick to overheat, and I honestly fear a bit for my life every time I have to start it up. I eat and prepare my school books while I wait for the laptop to start and hope the fan won’t quit working and force the laptop to shut down before I can finish my history essay.

              When the last of the chores and my homework are done, it’s nearly midnight. I carefully lower myself on the creaky bed with a tired grunt, turning my back to the nightstand that holds the book I’d been reading the past few evenings.

    I close my eyes with a small sigh, curling up under my blankets, trying to ignore the cold and the sound of air whistling through the small creaks left in the banister of the window.

    Another day is over.